


A Little Deeper

by QueerQuaking



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Annointing Oil as Lube, Blashepmous/sacrilegious themes, Blowjobs, Church Sex, Light Angst, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post s05x04, Praise Kink, Smut, this is kinda fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-02 01:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerQuaking/pseuds/QueerQuaking
Summary: Jeremiah's death leaves Bruce absolutely devastated. The last thing he expected upon a late-night visit to Jeremiah's church, however, was waking up bound at the foot of Jeremiah's altar.Alternatively, Bruce suffices perfectly as both Jeremiah's sacrifice and prophet.





	A Little Deeper

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fuckfest! This has been in my WIPs for weeks, and I honestly have no excuse. I mostly just wanted to have this out before tonight's episode kills me...  
> If you're sensitive to religious themes, please read at your own risk; this gets slightly fucked up, but nothing too major.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please don't mind the rushed editing,,

Once released from the binding handcuffs attached to the gate, Bruce ran as fast as he was physically capable of. He left Alfred behind; he knew that the matters ahead were much more pressing than the scolding he would surely receive. When he arrived, however, he found that his fastest wasn’t nearly enough. Selina, adorned in the odd, now blood-splattered striped robe that once clothed Ecco, was leaning over Jeremiah. She persistently plunged the glinting metal into Jeremiah’s prone form, and perhaps the worst part about the entire image was that Jeremiah wasn’t fighting back. He was just standing there, his eyes widened in shock, and his face twisted in a strange, grimace-like smile that would look much more in-character on his brother. Bruce didn’t stop until he was roughly pulling Selina away. He realized belatedly with grim disgust that her sleeve was wet and warm from his blood.

Seeing the pale face of the once reserved engineer that he had felt- admittedly, still felt- a real, honest connection with contorted in pain as blood poured from the uncountable stab wounds he had received caused Bruce’s heart to clench painfully enough to bring a modicum of tears to his eyes. He pushed down feeble emotions, focusing on getting out of there before he could do anything rash. He caught Selina’s eye as he fled the room, and gave a small disappointed shake of his head. He was barely out of the room before the tears began to pour. 

 

The days passed in a hollow, ticking echo of what time once was. Bruce tried - really, he did - to occupy his time with something, anything that could make him feel desirably more like himself. He certainly wasn’t a stranger to the numbness of loss, but no one in their right mind would enjoy such an utter lack of emotion. He filled his days with false enthusiasm for rebuilding and repairing Gotham the way he knew he should, and he filled his nights with the blank idle of watching the ceiling above his cot for hours - he had lost the motivation to seek out criminals; there wasn’t really a point. He no longer needed to find Jeremiah, after all.

He knew something he could do. Should do. His mind would tell him. Yet, where did thoughts such as that lead him last time? Standing over the body of one of his only true friends while his only other friend held the bloodied knife. He just couldn’t wipe the image from his mind’s eye. Jeremiah splayed across the ground, his ever-flamboyant jacket askew yet limp, his pale skin a deep contrast against the dimly-lit dirt, his splendent green eyes wide, unblinking, seemingly empty. 

The images just kept rolling cinematically, seeming to illuminate the room in the poor light of post-dusk. Bruce abruptly sat up, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into an agitated line. He gave a slight sigh as he realized that tonight would be but another sleepless expanse. With the grace and silence of a shadow, he changed into a stereotypically black outfit consisting of a turtleneck, black skinny jeans, and matte black boots. He slipped out of the flimsy door, carelessly allowing himself to be enveloped by the night. 

 

Jeremiah’s church hadn’t changed outwardly whatsoever. The only minute difference was the lack of flames in the guiding candles. The previously lit pathway was dark and cold, like Jeremiah’s soul was the sole power source, and now that he was gone, the light could no longer struggle past the blackness of the night. Bruce trudged onwards, undeterred yet unsettled by the dead aura surrounding the temple. The door creaked ever-so-slightly when Bruce pushed it perhaps a bit too harshly. The building was shrouded in the same lightless ocean, save for a single, faintly burning candle at the end of the aisle of pews. Bruce’s footsteps sounded painfully heavy on the hardwood, and some of the emotion he had subconsciously been trying to suppress bubbled to the surface. A few shallow tears collected in his eyes, and he has to pause a moment to collect himself before continuing down the passage. 

Bruce felt as if his legs were threatening to give out beneath him, the last few steps seemingly lasting centuries. He collapsed at the foot of the altar, his head automatically going back, and his eyes zeroing in on a stained-glass portrait of his once-friend. That small piece of art was Bruce’s undoing. The tears poured as twin rivers from his eyes, and he had to stifle the small sobs and gasps that wracked his shaking form. He leaned forward against a short step, burying his face in his arms, entirely being propped up by the carpet. He allowed himself this much. A release of sorts from the pain of the entire ordeal. Loss was becoming heart-wrenchingly common in Bruce’s everyday life; losing Jeremiah to his brother’s insanity, almost losing Selina to Jeremiah, actually losing Jeremiah to Selina, losing Selina to herself. It was a dizzying cycle that appeared never-ending.

Minutes passed like seconds, and soon, the tears that had collected on the soft covering over the floor were drying. Bruce wasn’t sure when exactly the tears had ended, but he could certainly attest to the fact that he felt infinitely better after letting his emotions free. He ran a self-conscious hand across his face, collecting the leftover droplets. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes adjusting sluggishly from flashing pin-pricks of color after being pressed harshly against his arm for such an extended period of time. 

What Bruce failed to notice, what with the emotional outburst and all, was that he wasn’t alone anymore - though, maybe he never was to begin with. His blissful ignorance was shattered quite quickly, though, when a blunt object was forcefully swung straight at his temple. He scrambled to get his feet underneath him, a thick gasp being ripped from his throat as he jumped back. A masked figure adorned in a classy black and white suit stood only feet away, holding what appeared to be a baseball bat. The weapon was shiny and black, overtly destructive, yet sleek and smooth. It was sophisticated in its own way, capable of brutality, but unsuspecting and plain. A seemingly well-thought-out tool. 

Bruce weakly put up his fists, knowing that he stood little chance against an armed individual with his only protection being himself. The intruder painstakingly advanced, and Bruce had a solid half second to consider what one of Jeremiah’s followers was doing back here, before the weapon was sailing towards his cheek. He ducked, but after a moment of not even feeling the breeze against his face, he pried open one eye to peer upwards. The weapon was pointed at him, and he watched in puzzled motionlessness as his opponent spun the knob at the end. Slowly, a mysterious red vapor crept from the tip of the barrel that was directly above Bruce’s shocked face. The heavy substance sunk into Bruce’s lungs before he could even blink. ‘That’s a new one.’ was Bruce’s final thought, before the red haze pulled his consciousness under a dark ocean that contained nothing but painful memories and wanton nostalgia in its depths. 

 

Even in a drug-induced sedation, Bruce slept far better than he had in the past week or so. The vapor caused a lingering sense of uneasiness even in the dreamless portions of his rest, but he was still grateful for the moments of repose. The waking part, however, wasn’t as thrilling. 

Bruce shifted slightly, his eyes twitching as he began to regain consciousness. He vigilantly cracked a single eye open, immediately observing that wherever he had been relocated to was a bit brighter. He attempted to sit up, but quickly found that his wrists were tightly bound to the ground. Speaking of the flooring, Bruce realized it was the same plush carpeting that adorned the stairs to the altar. Both of Bruce’s eyes were flung open, and he observed that he was still staring at the decorated temple ceiling, the stained-glass image of Jeremiah’s likeness seeming to watch Bruce mockingly. He also noticed that the luminescence that now surrounded him was all thanks to tens of candles. Each and every candle was also embellished with Jeremiah’s face. 

Much too belatedly, Bruce noticed the followers. What couldn’t have been less than forty people of every variety were gathered in front of the pews, watching Bruce writhe at the base of the altar. Their lips moved discreetly, a low humming filling the air as the followers chanted. Bruce didn’t even want to ponder what this ordeal was about, and luckily, he didn’t have to. 

In a single coordinated motion, the congregation dropped to their knees. They bowed forward, their foreheads hitting the floor, seeming to pray. After roughly thirty seconds, a wave seemed to wash through the temple and they all gracefully stood in sync. Even whilst on their feet, their heads were bowed humbly, and their hands there clasped squarely in front of their chests. It was quite a spectacle, almost as if hypnosis had taken over the poor souls, and Bruce probably wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t just experienced it with his own eyes. 

Then, in perfect timing, slow, calculated clapping resonated through the space. Not a single follower moved, eyes closed and heads bowed in respect, only Bruce, who whipped his head to the direction of the voice as best as he could. 

“An excellent ceremony. And my, my, what a magnificent lamb you have chosen.”

After the effects of the insanity gas, Jeremiah’s voice was unmistakable. Still, Bruce found that he couldn’t believe the utter disbelief and awe he felt at hearing that familiar monotone. He almost wanted to trust that he was still under the effects of whatever he had been sprayed with, or better yet, that this entire evening was just his sleep-deprived mind finally getting a wink of rest. Still, he didn’t think his mind was imaginative enough to conjure a dream of this caliber. That thought was especially true when Jeremiah’s figure came into view from the shadows of his church. He looked exactly as Bruce remembered, the only change being a fresh set of clothes. A gasp left Bruce’s lips, and his eyes were widened in sheer astonishment. 

“B-but Selina killed you.” His voice wavered, and he really didn’t know what he was feeling. Fear would be logical. Disgust certainly wouldn’t be misplaced. What a pity that neither of those was anywhere to be found on his spectrum of emotions. 

“Oh, Bruce. You know as well as I do that people don’t simply die in this city.” It was a sentiment that he had heard dozen of times, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. 

Bruce knew that he should say something. Ask why he was tied at the foot of Jeremiah’s altar, for instance. Questioning how Jeremiah survived multiple stab wounds to the stomach and chest also seemed like a healthy option. Instead, Bruce found that his tongue was completely tied. He was at a total loss of what to say. He openly gawked at Jeremiah, still beyond stunned. Bruce only unfroze when Jeremiah made a simple sweeping gesture with his hand, and the entire congregation bowed deeply and shuffled neatly out the front door of the building. 

“Now… We have pressing matters to attend to.” Jeremiah slowly approached the altar, his dress shoes clicked intimidatingly against the wood flooring of his temple. 

“Why am I tied up?” Looking back, Bruce probably could have found something slightly more intelligent to say, but in the moment, the shock overcame any semblance of witty banter.

“Oh, that.” Jeremiah replied nonchalantly. “It is just most practical to bind sacrifices. Tragically, most of them lack the common sense to avoid fleeing from a deity.” 

Thinking back, Bruce could vaguely remember his parents teaching him of the Bible as a child. He could kind of recollect scriptures of sacrificial oxen and the preparations that were undergone in order to burn the creature. Still, would Jeremiah really burn him to death? Wouldn’t that contradict every plan he had ever made? He didn’t have much time to voice his concerns; Jeremiah’s steps echoed as he strode up the steps to stand only a foot in front of Bruce’s face. Bruce would see just how immaculate Jeremiah’s shoes were; not a smudge or scuff in the leather to be seen. 

“Did you see how those people bowed before me? How they followed my every command soundlessly? That is the mark of a true god.” Jeremiah began speaking before Bruce could start saying anything. He seemed even more out of his mind than when Bruce had seen him last. The insanity gas was gradual, apparently. 

Bruce glared up at him, and Jeremiah simply smirked down at him. Even a simpleton could see where the power lied in this exchange. Bruce wasn’t sure what to think. He had just spent nights lying awake in regret for not being able to save Jeremiah. He had come to his church in the middle of the night just to cry at the base of his altar. He wasn’t sure whether he should be angry about being tied up, or relieved about Jeremiah being safe and sound. He supposed that it was possible to feel both at the same time, accompanied by countless other emotions that he couldn’t even attempt to identify at the moment. 

“Why am I here?” Cutting to the chase may get him out of here more quickly. Though, did Bruce really want to leave so badly? 

“Why don’t you worship me, Bruce?” 

The responding question caused Bruce’s mind to short-circuit momentarily. Wouldn’t a better question be ‘Why would Bruce worship Jeremiah?’? Jeremiah hadn’t done anything spectacular, besides killing thousands of people and restricting free movement to and from the city. Jeremiah could have done spectacular things; things worthy of all of the praise in the world. Instead, Jerome took someone who could have been a savior and turned him into a tormentor. Even through the trauma, though, Bruce could still see his friend somewhere deep in Jeremiah’s eyes. 

“What have you done to deserve my worship? Blow up half of the city? Brutally murder blameless civilians?” Bruce retorted, the prospect of worshipping Jeremiah sounding mostly ridiculous. 

“But you could worship me.” Jeremiah made the idea seem so natural, like worshipping him would be beneficial to Bruce, and not just himself. He made it sound as if the words Bruce had just spoken meant absolutely nothing.

“You could bow before me; kiss the ground I tread upon. You could be my most treasured prophet. Wouldn’t that be much more ideal in juxtaposition to being a mere sacrifice?” 

To anyone, this would sound utterly insane, Bruce included. Still, was Jeremiah just going to kill and discard him if he didn’t play along? Ideally, Bruce would walk out of this church in one piece. 

Slowly, disarmingly, Bruce leaned over to the best of his ability and gently touched his lips to the carpet directly before Jeremiah. He allowed his lips to linger for a few seconds before lifting his head and craning his neck to look into Jeremiah’s surprised eyes. Apparently, Jeremiah wasn’t expecting that. After a still moment, Jeremiah took a small step forward, now within Bruce’s reach. 

“My shoes?” Without context, the question could have meant pretty much anything, but Bruce seemed to understand well enough. 

He leaned forward again, not having to fall quite so far this time. Bruce’s lips carefully connected with the soft, obviously authentic, yet dyed, leather of Jeremiah’s shoe. He peppered light kisses up the front to the small section of eccentric red laces. He glanced up to gauge Jeremiah’s reaction and saw curiosity reflected on his face.

Bruce’s actions felt oddly intimate. Jeremiah could easily break Bruce’s jaw while in this position, yet Bruce felt no fear whatsoever. It felt natural, almost: worshipping the now god of Gotham. He even stuck his tongue out to lick a thin line over the front of the shoe. The leather tasted bitter; shoe polish leaving an odd aftertaste in his mouth. 

Jeremiah leisurely lifted his foot ever-so-slightly, brushing the rubber front of the shoe across Bruce’s neck, before settling it under his chin and using it as leverage to lift his head.

“Do you worship me, Bruce?” His voice was disturbingly even given the conditions.

Bruce nodded eagerly, attempting to clumsily nuzzle his cheek against Jeremiah’s shoe. Jeremiah slowly lowered his foot as to not jostle Bruce. He appeared to study Bruce for a moment. After the brief scrutinization, he seemed to nod to himself ever-so-slightly. 

“Prove it.” Was all he said. 

“Untie me?” Bruce responded, trying to give his best puppy-dog eyes.

Jeremiah seemed to deliberate momentarily, before deftly untying Bruce’s wrists from the ground. Alas, as soon as the rope was gone from Bruce’s wrists, it was replaced at his ankles. At least now Bruce could choose between laying, sitting, and possibly even standing if he didn’t mind the rope digging into his skin a bit, plus he could use his hands freely. Logically, now would be a good moment to try to free himself. Instead, Bruce threw all logic out of the stained-glass windows and lifted himself into an awkward all-fours position. He bowed his head to the ground, alternating between kissing and licking each of Jeremiah’s shoes, before progressing to lift the bottom of Jeremiah’s slacks as best as he could to place chaste kisses to his ankles and slightly farther up his legs. He heard Jeremiah’s breath catch slightly.

“Is that the best you can do?” Jeremiah’s usually monotonous voice sounded a bit strained, and Bruce couldn’t help but consider the implications his actions held. 

Bruce smiled slightly, raising to sit back on his knees to look at Jeremiah. Bruce tilted his head slightly and looked right into his eyes. 

“I’m your sacrifice. What would you like me to do?” He questioned.

“Stand.” He commanded.

Bruce gracelessly got to his feet, almost tumbling over as the rope caught and dug into the fragile skin of his ankles. The feeling wasn’t exactly painful, more so just bordering on unpleasant. 

“Now drop to your knees and bow.” How perfectly in-character of Jeremiah to make Bruce stand just to force him back to his knees merely for the sentiment and dramatics. 

Still, Bruce did exactly that without question, falling to the carpet hard enough to send jolts of pain spiraling up his knees. He fell flat, his forehead against the soft carpet, and his arms folded carelessly beneath him. Jeremiah seemed to find that particularly humorous, as soft peals of laughter filled the room. 

After he calmed once more, Jeremiah commanded, “Again.”.

So Bruce shakily got to his feet to drop once more. He dared not question the orders, following without a single qualm or complaint in his mind. It was oddly freeing, giving up control and power to another person. Even if Bruce started by doing this to preserve his own life, he found himself doing it partially of his own free-will at this point. 

“Now, just on your knees.” Jeremiah again instructed, and Bruce followed willingly.

Bruce wasn’t exactly sure what Jeremiah was expecting him to do, he just waited, staring up into pale eyes, but he also was aware that now probably wasn’t a very good opportunity to ask. After a moment of silence, he angled himself to lean on his hands for balance and began placing chaste kisses over Jeremiah’s clothed thighs. He worked his way up and down Jeremiah’s legs, occasionally looking up solely with the purpose to see Jeremiah’s blown eyes. 

“Am I your prophet, or am I your sacrifice?” Bruce meekly mumbled between kisses, knowing how stupid it sounded, but also too preoccupied to truly care.

“That depends on if you prove yourself worthy of being a prophet.” Came Jeremiah’s slightly breathy response. “Now, then. Worship me, Bruce.”

Bruce wasn’t exactly the best with social cues, he had led a mostly sheltered life at the manor, but he was almost certain there was some kind of sexual connotation in Jeremiah’s words. Steadily, cautiously, he inched his fingertips towards Jeremiah’s waistband, looping them in gently and tugging in a questioning manner. Jeremiah’s only response was entwining his fingers in Bruce’s brunette locks and pulling. Bruce took that as an encouragement, and carefully unclasped Jeremiah’s dress pants. He warily ran his fingers across Jeremiah’s deep purple silk boxers as soon as they came into view. Bruce could feel his semi-hard length through the material, and tentatively gave it a soft squeeze. 

The sound Jeremiah made in response was not unlike that of someone being strangled; his fingers clenched in Bruce’s hair, and when Bruce glanced up, he saw Jeremiah’s eyes tightly shut, and his lips parted in what was possibly pleasure. Feeling slightly devious, Bruce repeated the action - this time adding a small flick of his wrist when reaching what he could only assume was the tip. Bruce made sure to keep his eyes firmly trained on Jeremiah’s face the entire time to watch his expressions. 

Jeremiah’s head lolled back slightly, his lips parting further in a mostly cut-off moan as his eyelids fluttered. Bruce couldn’t help the small smirk that painted his lips. After a few moments of teasingly stroking Jeremiah through his boxers, Bruce carefully leaned closer, his mouth aligning perfectly with Jeremiah’s crotch at the angle. He gave a kittenish lick to the cloth, faintly tasting the odd combination of laundry soap and salty pre-cum. Jeremiah softly whimpered, a sound he instantly attempted to cover up with a small cough, and Bruce began mouthing at Jeremiah’s now almost fully hard cock with a newfound vengeance.

Jeremiah allowed that to go on for a bit longer, obviously enjoying every second if the sounds being pulled from his throat were anything to go by, before he tugged the roots of Bruce’s hair roughly to raise his head. Bruce whimpered quietly before he could stop himself, but swallowed his pride and mostly just stared up at Jeremiah hesitantly. 

“You call that worship? That’s mere taunting; I said to worship me, Bruce.” Jeremiah emphasized his words with a pointed tug on Bruce’s hair. His tone was almost condescending, and though it was still the slightest bit whiny, it was infinitely different from the high-pitched moans and whines that had tumbled seamlessly from his lips moments ago. 

Still, Bruce scoffed sarcastically before tugging Jeremiah’s boxers down in a singular smooth motion. Bruce admittedly had never got the chance to taste the pure sin of another man. Sure, he’s touched guys before - mostly during his partying days -, but he’d never actually tried oral with another male. Still, he stuck his tongue out to taste the reddened tip of Jeremiah’s cock. He was surprised that the taste wasn’t as repulsive as he was expecting when it wasn’t intermingling with the flavors of fabric and soap. A few licks and hair tugs later, Bruce was attempting to take Jeremiah down his throat, swirling his tongue along the shaft before bobbing his head to take a couple of inches. When he got into a rhythm, Bruce actually found the hot, heavy feeling in his mouth to be quite pleasant. It was almost addicting, the drag of every vein across his soft palate, and the thick taste coating his tongue. 

Bruce eagerly took more, seeking to fit every inch down his throat, regardless of how many times he gagged. Jeremiah seemed equally as eager, as he soon began tugging Bruce forward and back by the hair. Just as Bruce was beginning to feel like he was starting to get good at deepthroating, he was roughly forced back by the sharp pain in his scalp. Within seconds, Jeremiah was no longer in front of Bruce. The candles flickered slightly, but Bruce couldn’t see Jeremiah through the deep-cast shadows. 

“Jeremiah?” He called to the darkness, unable to search due to his ankles still being bound tightly to the floor. 

Within seconds, Jeremiah was back again, a small vial of some olive-tinted liquid in hand, and his clothes magically back into perfect place. He sat it atop the altar, before agile fingers began wordlessly untying the ropes binding Bruce’s ankles. The air burned the raw marks made by the bristly binds, but Bruce found the slight tingling sensation to be oddly pleasant. Bruce slowly got to his feet, hissing quietly at the feeling of his inflamed skin brushing against the carpet. 

If he was being smart, or thinking whatsoever, Bruce would take this as the ideal and final opportunity to leave. Instead, he stumbled towards his captor, all but collapsing into Jeremiah’s arms as his brain caught up to the fact that his legs were mostly numb. Still, he had the chance to do the one thing that he had been considering doing since he had met the reserved engineer. 

Bruce clumsily surged forward, pressing his lips firmly against Jeremiah’s. Jeremiah seemed to be surprised - his frighteningly pale green eyes widened, and he took a few seconds to respond. Once he did, though, he followed Bruce’s movements with a fervent ferocity, hands migrating back to Bruce’s hair to keep him from moving even a centimeter away. The kiss was anything but graceful. Teeth clashed, and Jeremiah bit Bruce’s tongue at one point, which may or may not have been an accident, causing the metallic essence of his blood to splice the taste of wine on Jeremiah’s tongue.

The kiss went on for what could have been seconds or hours, until Bruce had to pull away minutely - resulting in a sharp tug to the roots of his hair - to catch his breath. The room spun dizzyingly fast, and Bruce couldn’t recall a single kiss he had ever experienced to be even half as euphoric. Jeremiah seemed to feel the same, his expression slack and dazed, his eyes unfocused but blearily trained on Bruce. 

Jeremiah was the first to recover, pulling Bruce back in to entangle their tongues until Bruce couldn’t feel anything but Jeremiah all around him and the ground swaying beneath his feet. Colors danced behind his eyelids, and he didn’t register that the breathless, slightly whiny moans that filled the air were coming from himself until Jeremiah separated from him marginally. While Bruce gasped for air, Jeremiah didn’t take any time to catch his breath, instead beginning to place chaste, soft kisses across the brunette’s jawline and down his neck. 

Bruce’s hands grasped the back of Jeremiah’s immaculate suit jacket as the kisses soon turned into shallow bites and licks, a particularly harsh nip to the sensitive juncture where his shoulder and neck met drawing a high-pitched whine from his throat. After a few moments, Bruce decided that it just wasn’t enough, and brought his hands around to run along the front of Jeremiah’s dress shirt. He began inelegantly attempting to unbutton the silky material, his fingers fumbling as he struggled to maintain some form of coherence. 

Jeremiah took that as a cue to pull away completely, shedding his jacket and shirt in a few smooth motions, before he began working on completely undressing Bruce. The candles, among other things, had heated the room sufficiently, the air actually feeling relieving against Bruce’s exposed chest and torso. Soon enough, Jeremiah was helping Bruce out of his pants and boxers, leaving the younger completely nude while Jeremiah still conserved some modesty. 

Jeremiah collided his lips with Bruce’s as soon as the latter’s last article of clothing was strewn carelessly along the pews of the church. His hands immediately took to Bruce’s hips, walking him backward until his lower back collided with the wood of the altar. The mysterious vial rattled as the wood shook, but Bruce barely even registered it over the rushing in his ears and the hammering of his heartbeat. Soon enough, though, Bruce was being abruptly spun around, the sharp edge of the wood digging into his ribcage. 

“Your attempts at proving yourself worthy were pitiful. Maybe some enlightenment is in order.” Jeremiah’s voice mostly sounded as devoid of emotion and controlled as ever, the slight breathlessness to it notable only to a keen ear. Jeremiah reached for the vial, one hand remaining pressed against Bruce’s hip, while the other popped the cylinder open. The scent of olive oil and what may have been cinnamon filled the air. Bruce almost whined - almost - as his only contact to Jeremiah was ripped away in favor of pouring a copious amount of the slick liquid over his fingers.

“Here’s my blessing, Bruce. Pay attention, you will be expected to recollect my lessons whilst serving as my prophet.” No time was allotted for Bruce to conjure a response before pale digits were teasingly trailing down his neck and back, leaving a shimmering trail of oil in their wake. 

Jeremiah’s fingers dipped down the small of Bruce’s back, the slight tickle following causing pleasant tingles to trail down the brunette’s spine. His back arched slightly, and he couldn’t suppress the pitiful whimper that came as his hole was caressed. Jeremiah was obviously teasing at this point, his finger making small swirling motions along Bruce’s sensitive ring of muscles, before trailing back up and sweeping his hand along Bruce’s shaft. This elicited a needy moan from the billionaire, his dick jumping almost imperceptibly at the contact. 

A smirk materialized across his painted lips as Jeremiah ran his thumb over the head. Small beads of pre-cum stained his skin, and another droplet rolled out as Bruce moaned and bucked his hips. Jeremiah added more oil onto his fingers, and tauntingly rubbed Bruce’s hole once more before slowly pushing it inside. The brunette’s hips rotated backward at the odd intrusion, and Jeremiah didn’t give him much time to adjust before he was appending a second. He scissored his fingers, stretching the younger’s smooth insides and searching for the one spot that would have his billionaire seeing stars. 

A sudden whining gasp rang out as Jeremiah brushed a particularly textured bump, and he adjusted his fingers to relentlessly slam into it. Bruce’s thighs were shaking in no time, his knuckles white as he scrambled for purchase against the polished wood of the altar. He added another finger, stretching and rubbing. After what was, quite frankly, way too little preparation, Jeremiah’s fingers were suddenly just gone, and Bruce’s hole clenched against nothing and he rolled his hips back both desperately and involuntarily. He didn’t have to wait long, though, as soon the click of the vial being closed resounded in the near-silent temple, along with a zipper being undone, and something that was certainly much larger than three fingers was pressing against Bruce’s hole. 

Without any expected monologuing, Jeremiah was slowly pushing in. Bruce’s head fell forward against his arms on the altar, his entire body bent over the table. The pain from the stretch was staggeringly muted. Whether due to the shock and endorphin rush he was currently experiencing, or the drug he was sprayed with prior, he couldn’t help but be grateful. He had, admittedly, read up on anal sex before, and was not thrilled by the accounts of how agonizing the first time could be. The stretch, though uncomfortable, didn’t cause him any genuine pain. Instead, his whole body shook and tensed when Jeremiah’s length began brushing over his prostate at a painstakingly and torturously slow speed. 

“My, my, Bruce. Committing sodomy with a divinity. How absolutely disgraceful.” Jeremiah feigned disapproval once he was fully seated within Bruce. 

“I- This- I didn’t-” Bruce tried, but Jeremiah was making it difficult to concentrate on speaking when he began kissing along the back of Bruce’s neck and grinding his hips in the most deliciously distracting manner. 

“Shush, darling, let me purify your sins.” One of the most frustrating things about Jeremiah was how quickly his perceptions and moods changed. One moment he was chiding Bruce, and the next he was reassuring him. How stereotypically mad.

Still, Bruce couldn’t find it within himself to even consider complaining when Jeremiah began actually moving. He pulled completely out, his head catching on Bruce’s rim and tugging delightfully, before thrusting completely back inside in a singular smooth movement. A soft sound, perhaps a sigh, or perhaps a moan, left Jeremiah’s lips as he was fully enveloped in Bruce’s tight heat once again. Bruce just buried his face in his arms again, subtly pressing his hips back against Jeremiah’s as his head swam wonderfully. Jeremiah continued his slow, deep thrusts, leaving Bruce right at the precipice of pleasure, but never quite pushing him over the edge. Bruce’s eyelids fluttered, and his lips remained parted as endless needy moans and whines erupted from his throat. 

Jeremiah wasn’t exactly silent either; he wasn’t as vocal as Bruce, but Bruce could certainly feel the vibrations from his pleasured sounds against his neck and shoulder blades. Jeremiah continued littering bites and bruises across any skin available to him, and if the increasing urgency and sloppiness to his thrusts was anything to go by, Jeremiah was getting close too. 

Bruce let out a partially-strangled cry as his prostate was abused without cease, and right as his abdominals tensed almost painfully and his hole began to clench against Jeremiah, a hand snaked along his front. Jeremiah firmly gripped the base of Bruce’s excruciatingly hard member, halting any thoughts of cumming that were clouding Bruce’s mind. Bruce let out a loud sob, his hole clenching pitifully as he was forced back to reality and away from the waves of his impending orgasm. 

“Oh, Brucie. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue? In as virtuous an exchange such as this, it is only decent to show some basic manners.” Jeremiah taunted, his lips curling into a cruel smirk against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce ground his hips forward against Jeremiah’s hand, desperately trying to get more friction against his swollen cock. Jeremiah’s thrusting hadn’t ceased in the least, and the persistent rubbing did nothing for his barely held-off orgasm. 

“Jeremiah, p-please.” He whined pathetically, his voice raspy and barely audible as he tried to stave off an unwanted dry orgasm. 

“Oh, Bruce, dearest, an A for effort, truly.” Jeremiah sarcastically drawled, somehow maintaining some composure and enough self-control to slow his hips to unhurried, rolling grinds fully inside Bruce. “Try again.” He commanded.

Bruce felt himself getting worryingly closer to an impending dry orgasm, and droplets of water gathered in his eyes as the friction started to become too much. More sobs wracked his form, and he shakily gasped through the rising pleasure in the pit of his stomach. 

“God, Jeremiah, please, oh my god, please.” He begged, his voice embarrassingly desperate and high-pitched as colors flashed behind his eyelids. 

“Mm, I suppose since you’ve asked so nicely.” Jeremiah said with a sigh, easing the pressure from Bruce’s cock. Pre-cum erupted from the tip, and only a few thrusts later, Bruce’s back was arching in a way that was likely painful, and a noise that could only be described as a wail was ripped from this throat. His thighs threatened to give out with how roughly they were shaking, and his hips jerked feebly as white ropes painted the carpet. Bruce whimpered and gasped through the entire thing, the pleasure much more intense than he had ever been granted with his own hand.

Bruce’s undoing was also Jeremiah’s, as when Bruce’s hole began clenching tightly around Jeremiah, the increase in friction and pressure quickly sent him tumbling over the edge. He sunk his teeth into the thin layer of padding between Bruce’s shoulder blades, barely hearing the responding gasp as the metallic taste gracing his taste buds made his orgasm all the more powerful. Thick spurts of cum filled Bruce, mixing with the anointing oil. A series of moans, increasing in volume, fell from his lips - not that he could hear them over the rushing in his ears. 

Deep gasps and crackling candles were the only sounds in the eerily silent church once all was said and done. Bruce’s legs finally began to give out, and he began sliding the descent to the floor. Luckily, Jeremiah caught him before he could hit the ground, and he, as gently as he could, half-dragged-half-carried Bruce to the front-row pew. He carefully laid the semi-conscious male on the slightly cushioned bench. Jeremiah stepped away to grab a cloth to clean Bruce up with, and the brunette’s eyes fluttered open, feebly making a grabbing motion towards Jeremiah that may have been a request for his presence - he wasn’t exactly sure. Jeremiah had engaged in one-night stands a few times previous, usually with slim, brunette males with stormy blue eyes, but he had never stayed around for long afterward. 

He cautiously approached Bruce, reaching a tentative hand out to caress his cheek. A contented sigh fell from the semi-conscious male’s lips, his eyes fluttering closed once more. Jeremiah couldn’t help but wonder where his confidence had gone - moments ago, he was demanding Bruce to beg to cum, and now he was internally having a breakdown over some slight hand-nuzzling. Still, he waited until Bruce was certifiably asleep before removing his hand from the younger’s slackened grip. Feeling somewhat sated, and certainly more emotionally stable than he had since he had blown up the bridges, he collected Bruce’s clothes, folding them and placing the stack in front of the pew. After, he thoroughly cleaned Bruce up and covered him in a slightly dusty duvet that he may or may not have found in the church closet. He blew out the few still-lit candles, and went up the steps, collapsing into his barely-used bed with thoughts of only Bruce to comfort him in his slumber. 

 

Bruce awoke to colorful sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows of Jeremiah’s church. He laid against the poorly padded bench for a moment, his eyes remaining closed as his thoughts swam in a blissful haze. Alas, the euphoria lasted only a few brief moments, before the numbness of his left arm and sharp stinging in the back of his neck caught up with him. He slowly sat up with a pained groan, taking a few seconds to get over the initial lethargy before shakily attempting to get to feet. Luckily, the bench was right behind him, saying as the moment he stood up, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground. The billionaire barely caught himself before he completely hit the ground, weakly climbing back onto the chair. ‘Damn, Jeremiah was good.’

At some point during that ordeal, said Jeremiah had apparently joined Bruce in the sanctuary, since when Bruce looked up after being safely seated, the pale man was watching him with an amused smile and a plate of what was most likely breakfast in hand. Bruce smiled at him feebly. He knew that he should be angry at Jeremiah; faking his own death, drugging him, and seducing him should be considered major offenses. While Bruce certainly wasn’t happy about the way Jeremiah had gone about this affair, Bruce was mostly relieved that his former friend and possibly current lover was alive. 

“Good morning.” Bruce said cordially.

“Good morning, Bruce. How did you sleep?” Jeremiah walked closer, taking a seat comfortably close to the brunette, handing him the plate of what looked to be a pastry and some canned fruit salad. Bruce didn’t bother to consider where Jeremiah had found a pastry in the now desolate wasteland of Gotham, instead digging in as he realized just how hungry he was. 

Bruce paused after a moment, remembering that Jeremiah had asked him a question.

“Mm, fine.” He mumbled. Even though the position and place he had slept in left him a bit sore, Bruce had rested better than he had in quite a time. 

Once Bruce’s breakfast was nothing but a fond memory, he found himself looking back up at Jeremiah with a somewhat embarrassed flush painting his cheeks. Before he had the opportunity to make any sort of awkward remark, Jeremiah was rising to his feet. 

“Well, we do have much to discuss.” He said, before grabbing Bruce under the legs, and across the back. He lifted the brunette somewhat easily, carrying him bridal-style to the stairs. Incredulous protests and what may have been the sound of Bruce’s fists weakly hitting Jeremiah’s back followed them up the steps.

**Author's Note:**

> So... Uh... Yeah, I hope you liked it... My apologies for the ending, painfully anti-climactic, eh? Still, thank you sincerely for reading,,


End file.
